


Votive

by winternightfall



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Bestiality, Other, Plant sex, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, Sex Pollen, Tentacle Sex, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27777439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winternightfall/pseuds/winternightfall
Summary: The ritual is held in the springtime, for it is then that the Elementals stir from their winter rest. A sacrifice is required to bring life back to the land.
Relationships: Elementals/Kan-E-Senna
Comments: 3
Kudos: 28
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Votive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VenatorNoctis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/gifts).



The ritual is held twelve springtimes after she is entrusted to the guild, in the week when the morning frost remains just long enough to fade at the touch of the sun, and the Guardian Tree has formed leaf buds. The Elementals are stirring, hungry, ready to bring life back to the land. It is now when they will most appreciate her gift.

Her body must be offered to them freely, without restraint or hesitance. She thinks she can do this, uncertain though she is of what, exactly, congress between man and elemental entails. Fed by the aether of the forest, her horns have grown long and she hears their voices well, as if there were an ever-whispering crowd around her. She cannot often make out what they are saying, but she feels as though they are always watching, perhaps waiting to claim her.

If they are observing now, as she strips bare and lays her white robes on the stone by the waterfall, she pays them no heed. The cold water laps in, tasting her toes, the chill startling. She takes a breath and strides forward, flinching only a little as the icy shock of the waterfall embraces her. It pounds against her shoulders, pours in glacial rivulets over her breasts, her nipples peaking stiff. She keeps her head dry, hair still twisted tightly upward and scented with the oils and smoke of the previous evening. The cold tightens her lungs, and it takes her a moment to find her voice and repeat the incantation sevenfold, to ensure that the waterfall has had sufficient time to cleanse her.

If the rivulets running down her legs twist and caress more than she is used to, she does not notice.

She leaves the droplets clinging to her skin as she makes her way to the stone altar, and positions herself upon it. The surface is indented ever so slightly, as if worn by the bodies that have graced it, the curves of buttocks and backs. She matches them— arms splayed, legs slightly parted. A drop of water runs down her thigh and onto the stone, like an offering.

The wind picks up, and the trees rustle in answer. She looks up to the vault of the sky, endless and empty, and whispers in words she knows they will understand.

“I am here. Do as you will.”

It begins slowly— so slowly that she does not notice at first, positioned on the altar so. Green tendrils wind their way up the sides of the altar, climbing the cracks in the stone. They sway in slow motion, brushing across her arms, entwining with her hair and pulling it from the careful styling. A strand falls across her face, and it is when she reaches up to brush it aside that the coils around her arm tighten, holding her in place. She jerks forward, only to realize that her hair is restrained similarly. Helpless, she lies back in their grip, a nervousness speeding her heart and forcing an ill-placed giggle from her lips. A tendril brushes across them, as though to feel the vibration. Other vines finish restraining her calves and begin to snake up her inner thighs.

“Oh,” she says, with a sort of resignation. So this is how it is to happen. Now that it has begun, her instincts tell her to shrink, to squirm away, but she can hardly risk offending an Elemental so directly. She must accept all that is offered. Taking a deep breath, she tries to still those instincts, along with the pounding of her heart. A vine coils around her breast, squeezing. The ones around her arms and legs have grown thick and woody. Flowers bud in white and yellow, splitting open to reveal violently pink stamens. Golden pollen brushes on her skin, followed by the drip of pale nectar onto the corner of her mouth, spilling down over her cheek. The scent is a powerful vanilla and musk, the flavor sweeter than mead and filling her with a greater warmth. She flushes despite the lingering chill of the waterfall.

Her attention is drawn from this by the slide of a vine between her legs, tasting of her own wetness. A strange touch, probing, pushing, stretching. She wants to flinch away from the strangeness, as she flinched away from the waterfall, but her bonds hold tight as it coils its way inside her, deeper and deeper. The pressure begins to touch on something else, a warmth buried underneath the aversion, an insistence that grows stronger, that forces her voice out in a shaky moan. A second tendrill enters her, then a third. The forest seems to sigh. Her body is hot against the stone, the droplets on her forehead sweat now, the shuddering of her heart something other than fear. She rocks her hips as much as she can, trying to overcome the agonizing slowness, licks into the flower to taste more of the intoxicating sweetness. The flowers over her body shiver, as if jostled by a breeze, and their nectar drips across her skin. There is a faint rustling, like a crowd watching in anticipation.

When the water rises around the altar, she notices with equal measures of apprehension and desire. Her turned head is quickly pulled back to the stone of the altar, the motion makes her dizzy. The sky shimmers, with what she does not realize are blue butterflies until the creatures begin landing on her, dusting her with their wings and drinking the nectar with rapid tongues before taking flight again in a great cloud. 

The water rushes in as though pushed ashore by the wind, warmed by the sun and stone but still cool against her legs. It rises, spilling over her hips, pushing forward and in as though it had a mind— and a form— of its own. It fills her, hard inside her, lapping wave after wave over her mound, splashing over her breasts, pounding like the waterfall, pulsing like the tide, powerful, relentless. She writhes against her bonds, overwhelmed, her world narrowing to the throbbing between her legs. When she comes, screaming it to the sky, it is out of the need for relief. It doesn’t come, even as she shakes apart, the forest does not draw breath, does not tire, does not cease. The babbled words spilling from her lips come first in the language of the trees, then her own. None are heeded. The flowers swell and brighten, turning to the sun, still dripping nectar freely, their scent choking, clouding her thoughts. The water continues to rise, pollen and nectar swirling like oil on the surface, spilling over the corners of her mouth as she gasps. Sound rushes through her ears like a gale. The terror is instinctive, she is almost unable to calm herself enough to breathe through her nose as the water takes form, a twisting column that slides over her tongue and probes the back of her throat. The waves grow ever more forceful, and it's then and there, dizzy and half-choked, that she comes again, vision whiting out with the violence of a lightning strike. The hum of insect wings seems to murmur approval.

As the shudders of her second climax subside, so too does the forest seem to quieten. The water first stills, then pours down over the sides of the stone, leaving her cold, bedraggled and choking down the mouthful that splashes down her throat. She lacks the wherewithal to move, and the vines still hold her in place. She knows better than to hope it is over.

She wriggles her hair loose, gaining enough leeway to look toward the nearest stand of trees. There is a shape there— a lone stag, coat grizzled silver, one horn proud and branching, the other snapped near the base. She wonders how long it has been observing, its gaze uncomfortably prescient. As it draws nearer, she wonders first at its color, pale as if forged of morning mist, then its astonishing size, then the engorged organ that hangs under its belly. She squeaks, and twists in her bonds, trying to look as it passes, trying to look away, heart pounding. This isn’t— she can’t possibly— her mind reels, but the renewed and shameful heat between her legs acknowledges the truth— she can and she will. No matter how she returns to civilization and propriety, how she conducts herself, how she  _ pretends, _ she will always be the bare-naked girl in the woods, intoxicated and delirious, waiting for the stag to mount her with an anticipation such as this. It bows its head, misty eyes knowing, and lowers its nose between her thighs as if drinking from a mountain spring. Its tongue is thick, hot velvet, intruding and insistent, dragging over her till her thighs shake uncontrollably and she feels wetter than when the lake itself fucked her. Her cries have long since passed any kind of coherence.

It’s sheer relief when the stag surges forward, front hooves either side of the stone that she lies on, forcing itself so deep and so fast that she cries out. Its fur is rough against her belly, flesh hot and solid, it smells of forest and earth and musk. The act is primitive and bestial, flesh on flesh, sweat on sweat, scents mingling in the forest air. The stag huffs hot breath in her face, nostrils flaring, her own scent smeared across its muzzle. It stretches her, near splits her open, pushes her belly out from the inside. She gasps and groans and howls, reason stripped away, leaving only the creature which resides deep inside her, the animal that desires this melding of different flesh. The stag continues its relentless charge, pounding into her like hoofbeats, clashing against her like a rival, claiming her like a prize. It hits deep, again and again, until her cries become a continuous scream. At last it stills.

It rests above her for long enough that she is seized by the odd urge to pet its flank, as though it were a mount she were soothing after a long ride, or perhaps a lover. She cannot, of course— her hands are still bound. The creature shuffles backward ungainly, then bounds off as though the spell over it had broken. She hears the leaves rustle and the twigs snap as it retreats.

There is quiet— the peculiar silence that can only exist deep within the forest— for long enough to bring her to the verge of exhausted panic. Finally, the vines holding her in place retreat, the remnants withering so thoroughly that she can snap them even with her delicate strength. She staggers to her feet like a newborn fawn, tender and bruised between her thighs, arms and legs grazed and chafed from her bonds, skin rubbed red by the stag's bristly coat. The memory will not fade quickly either.

She stands in the clearing exposed, hair loosened and bedraggled, the breeze across her bare skin now resembling a possessive caress. Perhaps it is just her imagination. Her skin shimmers with pollen and butterfly scales, iridescent paint patterned after rivulets of water. It mingles on her thighs with the stag’s gleaming seed, dripping to the forest floor. All of it will no doubt wash away when she returns to the waterfall, but she imagines it as a stain, or perhaps a brand of ownership.

When she returns to the guild, she will be expected to hold her head high, and walk with the grace and dignity befitting a Seedseer. Nothing could seem further away. She curls her arms around herself and listens to the whispering voices on the wind.


End file.
